


Almost Normal

by Jackson_Rayne



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-21
Updated: 2012-09-21
Packaged: 2017-11-14 18:23:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/518184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackson_Rayne/pseuds/Jackson_Rayne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is inscrutable, Sherlock is out of his depth, everything is done in the wrong order, and yet somehow they end up with something almost normal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Almost Normal

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Kid A](https://archiveofourown.org/works/555412) by [Speranza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Speranza/pseuds/Speranza). 



> ...which should be read, as it is a brilliant SG-A fic, and led to this remix.

 

He never had a clue that it was going to happen. Which is barely credible in itself. With enough available data Sherlock knows everything that’s going to happen. He knew that John’s limp would prove to be psychosomatic, that Anderson and Donavan were going to have an affair, that Lestrade’s wife wanted a break, before any of these things actually happened, because he observes the data of John’s stance, Donavan’s new lipstick and Lestrade’s creased collars and grubby trench-coat and snaps the connections together. But even though he notices, observes, reads John in a way no one else bothers too, because at a casual glance John would seem unremarkable, maybe even a little dull, (which just goes to show how utterly _stupid_ people are) even as he see’s all that is exceptional and average, principled and ruthless about John, somehow this, this huge element to John, to himself - and to their friendship –simmers away, unobserved and unnoticed by him until it blindsides him. 

 

* * *

It happens just after another case cracked. It’s been days of what he lives for, a vicious, riveting crime to fight, he and John, racing through London shoulder to shoulder, debating, laughing, frustrated, excited, together, separate, but never further than a swiftly answered text apart, but this is the first time since Moriarty  that things have spiralled so out of control and only the second time that John has had to use his gun.  Sherlock feels both proud, and oddly in awe of John, who crashes through the door, forward-rolls across the floor in the blink of an eye, rises, aims and fires a kill shot, fast, accurate and without flinching. The unbearable pressure of the razor sharp blade that a split second ago was about to slit Sherlock’s throat open vanishes as the knife clatters to the floor, along with the body of the killer.

John slowly lowers his gun, eyes fixed on the body for a moment, then he lifts his eyes to Sherlock tied to the chair and John has just saved him and needs to be saved back. Sherlock keeps his eyes fixed on John and tries to tell him without saying a word; _it’s ok, you’re alright, you did the right thing_ reinforcing the connection between them that hauls both of them back from the abyss time and time again.

_"Sherlock!"_ It’s Lestrade and his team, too late as usual, but at least there won’t be any difficulty in the police putting together what has happened here. They are in the killers cellar and he had the camera’s rolling in preparation of the imminent torture and murder of his fifth victim, the young teenage boy who is tied to the table. It was for him that Sherlock allowed himself to be discovered in order to buy the boy some time. And he admits, it has been interesting, he loves talking to the clever ones. Loves to discover, analyse the broken connections in their brain, even though it usually ends with him very nearly dying. Although he will concede he would still pick talking to them every time. Very nearly dying is at least never boring. 

It takes an annoyingly long time to escape from the police station, even with the boys statement and the camera footage. Sherlock knows that Lestrade is pulling every string he has to have John released without charge but its happening too slow and Sherlock can’t get _near_ John, has no idea what is happening to him, how he is coping. Sherlock fidgets, paces and rants at the desk sergeant and Lestrade’s answer phone for nearly two hours but to no avail, and if it was him in there he would never do this, but it’s _John_ , so Sherlock swallows every ounce of his pride and calls Mycroft. Ten minutes later John and he are on their way back to Baker Street.

It’s when they get back that things start to slide away from Sherlock. They are half celebrating and Sherlock is half concerned about John. John gets a look in his eyes after he’s killed someone that, if Sherlock had a heart, he thinks would break it a little.

Sherlock’s adrenaline is still high from the knife at his throat, the tiny nick which remains from that moment of unbearable pressure, and the glimpse of ice-cold madness in the killers brain, and he needs a drink. John tries to say he just wants tea, but Sherlock pours him a whiskey, then another, and soon they are slumped on the floor with their backs against the couch talking too fast about the nights events. They start giggling at whose string Mycroft must have pulled to get John out, and can’t stop, and the giggles have razor sharp edges and maybe they haven’t shaken off the nights events as smoothly as each of them would like the other to believe. He thinks that he must have bumped into John, or maybe John leaned against him - but at some point their hands were brushing and their knees were bumping against each other….and then less bumping than _pressing_ , _rubbing_ , and John’s fingers were threading between his. Sherlock turns to look at John and neither of them is laughing anymore. John’s staring at him, breathing heavily, pupils blown, his jaw set, and suddenly John’s pushing him back, or maybe he’s sliding back, pulling John with him, but either way he’s heading horizontal and John is right there with him, then he’s lying on his back on the carpet, with John straddling him, and oh he’s hard, when did he get….?

And Sherlock is unbuttoning John’s fly and reaching inside, wrapping his hand around John who is thick and hard and hot in his fist and John is unbuckling his belt, and Sherlock feels John's hand and John's got him, John's moving his hand, his _hand_ — _Oh_ , _oh_ , _good, oh, yes_ —and the whole situation is astounding and barely believable and even as it’s happening his brain has gone into a long helpless skid, unable to process the data, unable to do anything but _feel_ , but the part that shocks him most is when John leans down and kisses him.

Deep and hard and no—this is not something he can do. John is kissing him like John _needs_ something from him and it feels strange, stranger even than John’s hand on his slick erection, because although sex is something he can generally live without quite happily, he has still masturbated a lot more recently than he’s been kissed. He had long ago written kissing off as a very overrated pastime, but he’s never been kissed like _this._ John’s tongue is deeply exploring Sherlock's mouth, demanding and oddly desperate and Sherlock doesn’t like it, its messy, and dangerous and _intimate_ , so he grabs John's shoulder to push him away—but somewhere along the way his hand is too _stupid_ to realise what his brain wants to do and the push turns into a pull, fisting his hand into that ridiculous jumper John is wearing and Sherlock finds himself opening his mouth to John, pushing his tongue against John's and kissing John back as passionately as he possibly can, because _God_ , this is good, he hasn’t been so aroused since, since….oh he can’t even remember, can’t _think_ , and John groans into his mouth as he jerks and spurts into Sherlock’s fist and his hand around Sherlock tightens and Sherlock is _there_ , climaxing hard and shaking, pure physical pleasure making sparks explode behind his eyes, and his brain, his constant, whirling, restless brain, falls blissfully still.

It's a while before they stop kissing and break apart, and when they finally do Sherlock’s lips are tingling, his body still has tremors running through it, and his face is flushed. John clambers off and Sherlock raises himself back up into a sitting position. John looks around a little helplessly and spots Sherlock’s dressing gown draped over the arm of the couch. He uses it to wipe his hands and offers the robe to Sherlock who takes it, uses it. Their eyes catch, then they look away.  For once he can think of nothing at all to say. His heart is still pounding, his body still thrumming with delicious after-shocks. This is like coming down from the best coke high, ever.

“Cup of tea?” John asks eventually in a relatively normal voice but for a slight tremor as he rises to his feet.

Sherlock nods numbly. He hasn’t had a partner for a long time, years, and this was nothing like the quick, clean, masturbation that he's used to. Even when he has had a partner it has never felt this strange, so _personal_ , and unresolved somehow. As John clatters in the kitchen, Sherlock’s brain finally pulls out of the skid and begins to grip again. He examines the available data, makes his conclusion and when he reaches it he groans softly, because he needs to sort this out immediately.  He gets to his feet, runs a hand through his hair, begins to pace.

 “Here,” John is in his path before he’s gone two paces, holding out a cup of tea, and finally manages to meet his eyes, he looks slightly embarrassed, yet happy.

“Thank you,” Sherlock takes the tea and looks at John who is smiling at him. Damn. This is going to be very awkward, but it really has to be said.

“Um, John,” Sherlock looks down into the tea, “I’m afraid I may have mis-represented myself. As you know, my work really is everything to me, and while just now I may have gone with the moment I really can’t commit to -“

 

John gives a short, mocking laugh and Sherlock looks up, on the verge of feeling real anger rising up inside him, when he sees John’s face has closed down, the smile verging on hopeful and happy has vanished, and immediately so does Sherlock’s anger. Now he feels sick and guilty.

 

“Really, Sherlock? You couldn’t drink a cup of tea before giving me this speech?”

 

“You’re angry with me,” Sherlock states. “Would you rather I said nothing? Drank the tea, spent the night with you, when all the time I would plan to say it in the morning? Isn’t it kinder to –“

“Sherlock! For Gods sake, just shut up!” John’s voice is sharp, then he sighs and almost as soon as it has come on, he seems to let the anger go, now he sounds almost defeated. “Look, forget it, it's fine, I didn’t really think-” John breaks off, then draws in a sharp breath and begins again, his voice clipped and completely controlled. “I've been in the army remember, I know how this works. We won't mention this again, we certainly won’t do it again, never happened.”

"Good," Sherlock says politely, relieved.  “Thank you. Are you…alright?” 

"I’m fine. Perfectly fine. I need to get to bed," John's halfway to the door when he tosses back over his shoulder; "Don’t forget to wash your dressing gown."

 

* * *

Sherlock is having difficulty deleting that nights events.

There is no logical reason why. He has always found sex to be easily forgettable and John said, ‘never happened’ and implausibly, incredibly, he wasn't exaggerating. Most people are so sentimental about their biological instincts and Sherlock expects a minimum of at least a few days awkwardness, avoidance and embarrassment from John before he manages to move on. In fact in his more realistic (what other people may call depressed) moments Sherlock has considered it possible, even probable that John would feel too uncomfortable living with him, may decide to move out at the first opportunity, but no. From the very first moment they saw each other the next day, when Sherlock was lying on the couch and John staggered home from a busy day at the surgery, John was back to normal without missing a beat. If he hadn’t been there Sherlock would never have a clue it had happened at allbecause there is no data, John is better than _Mycroft_ at keeping a secret. Not only does he never mention that fast, almost silent moment with Sherlock on the floor by the couch, kissing furiously, hands down each others pants, but he doesn't let it affect his tone of voice, his body language, not even his _eye movement._ John's just the same modest, ironic guy he's always been, the only person Sherlock has ever met who can both be impressed by him and tease him at the same time.

Sometimes Sherlock thinks it is more likely that he's suffered some kind of delusion and that genuinely nothing did happen between them. It’s easier to believe that than it is to accept that John can delete the experience so easily. Perhaps there was some kind of hallucinogenic on the knife that nicked his throat that night, because Sherlock has tested John, tried to elicit a reaction just to see if there would be one at all. He has rested a hand on John’s shoulder and leaned over John when he is tapping away at his laptop and John will carry on typing, without a flicker, no spelling mistakes, nothing. Sherlock stands close, way into his personal space, eyes locked on John and John will casually maintain eye contact and carry on talking, even when Sherlock is wearing his recently-washed _dressing gown_.

He begins to think the hallucinogenic theory has such merit that he runs tests on his bloods just to check, but of course any drug would have broken down by now and the results are nil.

Sherlock dislikes inconclusive results, but given that if it did happen he wanted to return to the status quo with a minimum of embarrassment, he shouldn’t keep pushing John for a reaction. And yet it affronts him that he obviously can’t read John as well as he thought he could, that he can’t get a thread of data from him about it. But even that doesn’t explain why irrelevant information is still taking up space in his head. He remembers how John’s mouth felt on his, how John’s hand was sure and firm and perfect on his body, how _good_ it all was, and most embarrassing of all, the thought; “Wasn’t it as good for him? Doesn’t he want me again?” keeps flashing through his head, every time he gets another non-response from John. And that more than anything is so utterly ridiculous, so insecure, illogical and irrational, that Sherlock can hardly stand it.

 

* * *

Sherlock barges into the restaurant, ignores the greeter at the door and pushes straight past, his eyes scanning the crowd. He sees John at a table with his latest annoying female. Sherlock has never met her, but in the few steps it takes him to reach their table he observes she’s a dentist, recently broke off an engagement, one cat, it’s their first date and it isn’t going well judging by her tight smile – which is becoming tighter as John nods along absently to whatever she’s saying, his attention focussed on checking his phone.

“John, come with me right now.”

“Sherlock!” John looks up, his expression torn between exasperation and relief. “Where’ve you been all day? I’ve been texting you - what are you doing here?”

“I needed a doctor,” Sherlock explains, opening his coat to show him the bloodstained shirt underneath.

“God, Sherlock!” John leaps to his feet and knocks a wine glass over, the wine splashes the dentist who is looking furious but John doesn’t notice. Sherlock doesn’t know why this pleases him so much.

“Relax, it’s not fatal,” Sherlock assures him, “but I think I may need a stitch or two and I don’t want to go to hospital.”

“Why not?”

“They ask awkward and pointless questions, will you have a look?”

“Of course, lets get back to the flat, my kit is there.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock says graciously.

“Sorry Rebecca, I have to go,” John hurriedly peals off some notes and hands them to a nearby waiter.

“Seriously? You expect me to believe this?” Rebecca splutters, “Well it’s an improvement on the ‘I just had a bad news phone call’ tactic I suppose.”

“No, that’s not-”

“You’ve been distracted all night and now you’re leaving!”

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” John says apologetically as he grabs his coat, one hand already on Sherlock’s shoulder, half-steering, half supporting him out of the restaurant.

“Don’t bother!” she snaps after him, tipping the remainder of the bottle of wine into her glass.

 

* * *

Back at 221B Sherlock strips off his coat and shirt as John is retrieving his doctors bag from behind the chair. When John turns his eyes land on the bruising and cuts on Sherlock’s pale torso, where the thief had landed a lucky kick and propelled Sherlock through a window.

“Oh,” John says quietly, and his eyes flick up to Sherlock’s and Sherlock’s mouth goes dry because John is looking at Sherlock as though the sight of him injured and damaged hurts John’s heart, and right then, Sherlock knows John hasn’t deleted anything.

The look is gone in a split second then John is digging in his bag, pulling out antiseptic wipes.

“So what happened?” John asks, moving forward to stand in front of him, but not meeting his eyes, hands steady as he cleans the blood from Sherlock’s skin, fingers firm but gentle as he presses them against Sherlock, assessing the damage.

“The antique burglar,” Sherlock explains, his voice feeling oddly thick. “I realised what he was stealing wasn’t random - obviously - and when I understood that, I knew…um… knew that he would be attempting to steal a particular 18th century vase from a  Mr Alexander’s collection tonight, so I went there to try and…and…” He trails off. Usually he loves doing this, explaining how he saw the pieces fly together to form a logical and beautiful pattern, and he especially loves telling John, seeing John gape at him like he’s amazing, but right now he’s having trouble concentrating, and the sentences won’t form fluently, and John’s hands are on him, but John still won’t look at him and Sherlock _needs_ John to look at him…

“God, you’re a genius, how did you know they weren’t random thefts?” John asks incredulously, eyes fixed on the worst cut, a gash on Sherlock’s side, leaning in with a pair of tweezers.

Sherlock tries to concentrate. “They were all items that at one point had been displayed in – ow!”

“Sorry, there was a sliver of glass still in there,” John explains, placing the tweezers and tiny fragment of glass carefully on the table.

“You could have warned me!”

“Nah, best to distract, and I know how you love explaining your brilliance,” John wipes away the blood from the cut again. “That’s the worst of them – all quite superficial, no stitches needed.”

“Good. Thank you.” And maybe Sherlock suspected that all along, but he isn’t a doctor and it makes sense to check these things so Sherlock doesn’t feel the slightest bit guilty about interrupting John’s date to insist he looks at what are basically scratches.

“It could have been a lot worse though,” John berates him as he tapes a dressing into place over the gash. “You’re an idiot for going there alone.”

“I thought I was a genius?” Sherlock protests, and finally, finally John looks up at him, and half smiles.

“In your case, you’re both,” and a faint blush rises on John’s cheeks as he looks at Sherlock. “Why didn’t you tell me what you were doing?” John asks quietly.

Sherlock’s eyes flick away. He can’t tell John, he barely knows why himself, but knowing John was going on a date had made Sherlock feel… well he’s never _liked_ John going on dates, but today it had been a lot stronger than ‘not liking’. All he knew was he had wanted John’s attention, but bitterly refused to ask for it, and each  increasingly irritated and concerned text John had sent to try and get Sherlock to talk to him had flooded him with delighted triumph. 

“I didn’t want to disturb your evening,” he finally offers, looking back at John.

John half-smiles. “Well that didn’t really work out,”

“Sorry,” Sherlock lies.

“Don’t be,” John says quietly, and Sherlock can’t look away and can’t catch his breath, because John’s hands are on his sides and he isn’t looking away either, and maybe this has never been about proving a theory, because now Sherlock has proven it, he still wants… wants… 

John drops his hands, looks away, moves to step back. “Well, I should let you get some rest-” and Sherlock’s hand flies out and snaps around John’s wrist, halting him. John frowns, looks at Sherlock’s hand, and then looks up directly into his eyes.  That’s John, always brave, facing things head on.

“Look,” John begins, “it’s not that I don’t – but why – I mean what are you—?" And Sherlock doesn't say anything, just keeps looking at John, and he can’t find the words, he doesn’t _know_ the words, or what it is he wants to ask for, but whatever John sees on his face must be enough, because after a moment John says; "Okay. Oka-," and somehow Sherlock’s body knew what he was asking for, even if his mind didn’t because before John has finished saying the second ‘Okay’, Sherlock springs forward, catches John’s mouth with his and kisses him and kisses him and kisses him. His hands holding tight onto John’s face, he can’t stop, he can’t. He wants to devour John, and that doesn’t feel like an exaggeration because this, he’s been _starving_ for this, and John is kissing him back with equal desperation, like John’s been _dying_ for this.

They stumble towards the couch, hit it, and roll off onto the floor together, and it starts just as fast and urgent as the other night, hands ripping at zips and buttons, mouths fused together, but then John pushes him onto his back, and starts to peel his clothes off, and somehow this slows things down, an undercurrent of tenderness intensifying. Sherlock’s not sure how he feels about that, isn’t sure he can _do_ that, and he has a moment when John slides his trousers all the way off him, hands sliding over his thighs and up his chest, looking at him like he’s something…beautiful, where the urge to run is strong, but the want to stay is even stronger so he tells himself not to be preposterous and lets John undress him and touch him and kiss his mouth, down his neck into the hollow of his throat, and he likes it, no he loves it, and he lifts his hands to John’s chest and runs his fingers over him, and John inhales a stuttering  breath as Sherlock’s fingers brush over his nipples and somehow the sound  unleashes something inside him, he wants to _map_ John, study him, explore every _inch_ of him. He rolls them so John is underneath and he strips John and looks and looks, observing, memorising, running his hands over him, and the way John whispers his name is _mesmerising_ , and the way he arches up to Sherlock’s hands is _fascinating_ , and Sherlock lowers his head to trace over John’s heated skin with his tongue and through it all John gasps, groans, writhes under his hands and mouth, hips moving restlessly, John’s hands in his hair and Sherlock goes lower and opens wide… wider...

He hasn’t done this for a long time, and even then the appeal stemmed from that it was an easy thing to do while maintaining total control, but now he’s not in control, now his hands are shaking and his heart is racing because now it really _matters._ But he pays attention and concentrates on making John gasp like _that_ , and shudder like _that_ and oh God, the sounds, those hitching, breathless moans he makes are _amazing_ , and even from between John’s legs he can’t keep his eyes away from John’s face, can’t keep his hands from sliding all over John’s body, trying to touch as much of him as he can. John reaches down blindly to tightly clasp Sherlock’s hand, and Sherlock finds he is shockingly aroused by the whole experience, at seeing John helpless with pleasure, at hearing John groan; “ _Sherlock_ , oh my god, Sherlock, _yes_ , that’s so bloody _good_ …” that when John’s climax comes he couldn’t be prised off John with a crowbar. While John is panting under him Sherlock briefly rests his head against John’s stomach, thinking that John will need a moment to recover but John hauls him up, and kisses his mouth, his cheekbones, all over his face, and wraps his hand around him, breathing hard, eyes wide and running over Sherlock as he moves his hand on him, as if just the sight of him like this is something to get off on. Sherlock feels oddly exposed and vulnerable, but he can’t bring himself to care when John is touching him like that, looking at him like that, and then John surprises him again, _John_ , the only person who makes him laugh, who makes him want to be better, who is both predicable and surprising, John pulls him up so he is straddling John’s face, and then John is opening his mouth and keeping his eyes on Sherlock’s face and he’s…oh, _oh_. _John, Christ_. And he’s sliding in and out of John’s perfect mouth and the sounds escaping from his mouth are like nothing he has heard coming from him before, almost sobbing, desperate moans, and his fingers are tight in John’s hair, and it must be hurting John, but John is moaning around him, his hands tight on Sherlock’s hips, so he mustn’t mind that, and it’s so _good_ , too good to _bear_ , and when his climax comes all over John’s face and mouth John doesn’t seem to mind that either. Quite the contrary. 

When it’s over they lie on the floor next to each other, staring up at the ceiling, breathing hard and eventually John speaks: “You didn’t like me being out with Rebecca, that’s why you showed up, isn’t it?”

“And I asked you to come and look at injuries you must have seen straight away were only superficial and here you are.” Sherlock replies without taking his eyes off  the ceiling.

John gives a quiet huff of laughter. “Touche,” and Sherlock feels a grin pull at his mouth.

They don’t say anything else, but it’s a comfortable silence and Sherlock eventually clambers onto the couch and crashes into sleep. When he wakes up the next morning John has gone to the surgery, but at some point John has covered him with a blanket. Even more touching there was no blanket in the living room, and it isn’t one Sherlock has seen before. John must have gone upstairs to his bedroom to retrieve it and come all the way back downstairs to cover him up.

 

* * *

It keeps happening now, when they are high on adrenaline and triumph and for a scientific man it seems that elation is embarrassingly exciting to him, because sex with John is like nothing he has ever experienced before. It’s not that they do anything extraordinary, sex is sex after all and they have only used their hands and mouths on each other, but hearing his name in John’s choked voice sends a shiver from his head to toes, feeling John’s mouth on him steals his voice and stills his mind, he can’t speak, can’t _think_ , and John’s hand sure and certain on him makes him fall to pieces and it’s okay, it’s _okay_ , because John will drive him over the edge and catch him as he comes down, and it is utterly, inexpressively fantastic.

But it’s also confusing and irritating because John’s hands are steady and his  breathing swift and quiet even when Sherlock can feel that his skin is hot and his heart is thundering as Sherlock relentlessly drives him to the edge, while in contrast Sherlock is a mess of trembling hands and cries that he can’t hold back. Then  afterwards John is right back to normal, scolding him for forgetting to buy milk, for keeping body parts in the fridge, for never doing the washing up and Sherlock is not used to being the one that is wrongfooted, playing catch-up with the mood change. He had been so confident before this that nothing of John was hidden from him, but now he realises that while he can read how many patients John saw in a day, who he had lunch with, if he stayed up late reading, there is much more buried deep below this. Sherlock can now appreciate how difficult John’s therapist had it, because nothing that John isn’t prepared to let people see is visible – Sherlock certainly can’t see himself anywhere and that fascinates him almost as much as it annoys him. 

They don't talk about it which is probably a good thing, because the only time Sherlock tried was the only time that he really seemed to hurt John. Also it appears that they don’t need to talk about it and Sherlock need not have worried because John never even hints he might want anything that Sherlock is uncomfortable with, physically or otherwise. Rebecca – and in fact John dating anyone - has quietly slipped out of the picture, which Sherlock is deeply relieved about. Since he is not offering John anything, it logically follows that John is perfectly free to seek out something more substantial as a relationship if he wants too (although exasperatingly _illogically_ the thought of this makes Sherlock feel as though his stomach is being twisted like a wash cloth). However John seems perfectly happy with being his flatmate, his friend, his crime-investigating colleague and sleeping with him on a semi-regular basis. Not that they’ve ever slept together, as in fallen asleep, its never come up, most of the time they are lucky to get into the _flat_ , never mind the bedroom.   

Until now.

And as John pushes him towards the stairs, his mind is flashing through the data,  trying to piece together why this is happening tonight and not before. Tonight they found the missing child and caught the kidnapper, a difficult case, which cumulated in a fast sprint across London to cut off the kidnappers escape route, so obviously in part because of the exhilaration of that, also the case has absorbed him so deeply over the last few days he’s barely been aware he even _has_ a body, so maybe John has been frustrated, or maybe…maybe its because at one point tonight the kidnapper floored his car directly at Sherlock which would have killed him if John hadn’t narrowly tackled him out of the way. Whatever the reason they’d barely stepped into their flat and they’d turned to each other, lips, teeth, hands. John had been backed against the door and Sherlock’s heart had been hammering as he ripped at John’s shirt, buttons bouncing to the floor, and Sherlock’s coat was still on, but his trousers were half open under John’s frantic, stuttering fingers. John had rapped his elbow hard on the doorway as he grabbed Sherlock’s hand, pushing it down to feel his erection straining at his jeans and their height difference meant he couldn’t get them lined up just right and it was just good enough to be frustrating as hell and John had made this sound, a snarl of utter frustration and grabbed hold of Sherlock’s hands, halting him in his groping.

“Okay, stop, _stop_.”

Sherlock had stopped, but didn’t move back from the heat of John’s body, he didn’t think he could, every inch of him was throbbing, he wanted this so much his _bones_ were aching.

“Problem?” he questioned, flexing his body so his erection ground against John’s hip.

“Come to bed with me,” John said, his voice low and charged.

And Sherlock wasn’t sure about that, stopping and changing location to go to bed implies a pre-meditation to this that he isn’t totally comfortable with, not to mention  an aura of normality about it, and Sherlock hates normal, can’t _do_ normal, so he tried to deflect.

“Bed,” Sherlock had scoffed, dropping and flexing his body so this time his erection dragged up against the length of John’s. “Bed’s boring.”

John’s hands were suddenly hard on his hips, stilling him, while holding him firmly in place against John’s erection, pressing against him so hard it skated the line between pleasure and pain.

“I disagree,” and suddenly John’s voice was firm and commanding sending shivers through Sherlock, because something new was happening here, and new….new was interesting. And incredibly sexy. 

“Oh really?” he managed.

“You won’t find it boring.” And something _was_ happening, but Sherlock couldn’t see what, couldn’t see anything except John’s eyes flicking over him, dark and serious and hungry.

“Are you proposing we test that theory?”

John’s breath caught and his jaw tightened and he looked at Sherlock and oh, _then_ Sherlock could see the want for him written on John’s face and the sight registered in his chest with an almost painful ache, making his knees go weak.

“Come on.” 

And suddenly John is kissing him, pushing him up the stairs to his bedroom, and Sherlock’s letting him, still uncertain but moving further away from his doubts with every step, walking up backwards, leaning down to keep kissing John, one hand on the wall for support, because he feels oddly like he’s falling, even though he isn’t. His other hand under John’s coat, pulling his shirt out from his jeans, reaching for skin, John following him up urgently, stretching himself up so as not to break the kiss. They get to the top and Sherlock gropes one-handed from behind for the elusive handle, because he is not taking his mouth away from John’s for _anything_. John reaches his hand around to help and finally, _finally_ the door clicks open and they stumble across the threshold. John kicks the door shut behind him, backing Sherlock towards the bed, lowering them onto it, hands cupping his face, still kissing him, slow, deep, aching kisses, then John pulls back for a second, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s as they draw in shuddering breaths of air, John’s eyes flickering over Sherlock’s face, dark and tender and Sherlock can’t _breathe_ when John is looking at him like that. Then they fall into the kiss again, pulling off each others clothes, fingers can’t move quick enough, reaching for skin, stretching out and rubbing against each other, erections kissing wetly, sliding together and this is not, this is decidedly _not_ boring, it’s so good it hurts, makes him ache inside, and he thinks - no, not thinks, he can’t think - it _feels_ like they are going to make each other come, just doing this, then John whispers against his lips;

 "You can fuck me. If you want to."

And right up to that second, Sherlock hadn’t believed things would ever get that far, hadn’t known what he would do if they did, because it’s _more_ , and Sherlock can’t _do_ more, but right then with John lying on the bed next to him, eyes flickering over him, naked and hard and breathing heavily, what comes out of his mouth is;

“John. God. Of _course_ I want to,” and suddenly its happening, John is fumbling for oil from his bedside table, kissing him, sucking his lower lip, moving his hand on him, making him slick before turning over and positioning himself on his knees, leaning forward and bracing his hands against the headboard. He lets his head drop down, exposing the line of his neck. Sherlock takes a moment to run his hands up over John's pale back, smooth until the angry scar, left from the passage of a foreign bullet though John and the sight of it sends a painful pang through him as he lightly runs his fingers over it, almost as though he’s trying to smooth it away and John shivers and spreads his knees further apart.

 "Oh my God, will you _hurry up_."

Sherlock’s hands are shaking as he holds onto John’s hips and positions himself, pushes inside, into John who inhales a shaky breath and moves back against him, taking him in. And, oh, oh, _god_ , that’s just…. Sherlock holds on tight to John and he still feels like he’s falling, but he’s falling with John and that’s ok, falling with John is _amazing_. And his body, his largely ignored, mostly considered irrelevant body it’s _not_ just transport, it’s _miraculous_ , because it can do this, it can join him and John together, get them close and God, he wants to get closer, he wants to live in John’s skin and blood and never, ever come out. He grips John’s hip with one hand and uses his other arm to clamp around John’s chest to pull John tight back against him, mouthing burning kisses all over John’s neck and John is moaning and hooking one arm around Sherlock’s neck to hold onto him, clutching at the headboard with his other hand, bracing himself, pushing back against Sherlock and Sherlock is moving deep inside, John is meeting him with every thrust and they are filling the room with their moans and this is _perfect_ , this is fucking _perfect.._.He doesn’t want stop, not ever, because this feels so… bloody… _good_ …And when John’s groans take on a helpless, quavering edge he drops his hand to John’s erection and John is yelling and shuddering and jerking into his hand and Sherlock is going too….he’s about too…and he buries his face into the curve of John’s shoulder, muffing his own shout.

John collapses onto the bed and Sherlock collapses onto John’s back, both of them panting for breath.

“Fine,” Sherlock says breathlessly eventually. “I accept your theory has merit.”

John giggles into his pillow. "I have a few of them.”

Sherlock smiles against John’s neck, tries to roll off John, and somewhere between an embrace and a retreat is where he settles.

 

* * *

Typically it’s the very next case when it all goes wrong. Sherlock is pacing the building trying to work out when the killer exited the warehouse and where he would go now. Probably to try and find a prominent place to display his latest body, (the third so far). Anderson is getting in his way, following him around, offering unhelpful opinions which Sherlock is ignoring. John is back by the body. Sherlock is not normally affected by an uneasy atmosphere, but the warehouse is creepy in a way Sherlock has never seen before, lit only by one dim, swinging lightbulb, with a maze of shelves of ceramic dolls lined up, watching him with frozen faces, and the body of that poor woman, painted and posed like a doll, who John has just confirmed was almost certainly alive throughout the whole of her ordeal. She has only been dead about two hours. They came so close to finding her in time, if only matching this area to the chemicals present in the fleck of mud they had found at the scene of the kidnap hadn’t taken him so long…Sherlock cuts off that thought. It is a maudlin, unhelpful self-indulgence. A shadow jumps in his peripheral vision close to the back of the warehouse and he has a spilt second panic of; "John!" then forces it down, he is being ridiculous, the swinging lightbulb is throwing shadows, John is fine, still gently examining the body, Lestrade is right there with him, and panic is another unhelpful emotion. To try and make the point that he is concentrating on facts Sherlock takes out his magnifying glass and bends to examine a footprint on the floorboards—and so he hears, rather than sees, the sudden harsh sound of dolls smashing to the floor, just as Sherlock realises what his senses have been telling his brain since he walked in, the killer is _still here_ –concealed behind the shelves of dolls - he turns back just in time to see John's horrified face as the killer howls, launching himself at John and throwing himself on top of him. Lestrade is struggling to drag him away as the killer is emitting unmerciful screams, hands at John’s throat and Sherlock is paralysed in horror, the magnifying glass tumbling from his nerveless fingers.  

For a moment, he's certain that he's going to lose John, he’s going to stand here and _watch him die_ , then Lestrade grabs a piece of broken shelving and slams it into the killers head with a sickening crack and the guy crumples.

Anderson and Donavon are there in an instant, helping John up, slapping handcuffs on the unconscious killer, shouting for the PC’s outside to come in and back them up. John's shirt is torn, livid red fingermarks on his neck and Sherlock's hands are shaking, so he quickly shoves them in his pockets. He has _never_ been paralyzed before, he doesn't know what’s _happening_ to him, what to say, how to explain…And he wants to go over there, go to John, but he doesn't, he can't and finally he manages to half-yell; "Lestrade! What the _hell_?"

Donavon and Anderson glare at him, but Sherlock ignores it, he’s never felt so angry in his life, but that’s good, anger feels safe. “I thought your people checked this scene?” Sherlock roars. "How, _how_ could they miss that the killer was still _here_! And you!” He rounds on John; “Lingering over the body, trying to cover her up, what was that about? That’s what made him angry enough to attack!”

“Alright Sherlock, that’s enough!” Lestrade snaps. “This wasn’t John’s fault!”

John's on his feet with Lestrade supporting his arm, but he still looks wobbly. "Sherlock, I’m alright.” John’s voice is gritty and hoarse. “I’m fine-”

"Of course you are," Sherlock says, voice slathered with sarcasm. "Stupidity always flourishes.” Sherlock turns on his heel and stalks out of the warehouse. He manages to make it around the corner into an alley before collapsing against the wall, because this is his fault, all his fault; he led Lestrade to this building, he brought John with him, and even though Lestrade had no reason to think the killer was still in the warehouse, _he_ should have known, he should have put that together _sooner_.

He can’t face the flat and he can feel the danger signs, the urge building desperately in him to forget, to escape, to score some cocaine _right now_ , so he pulls out his phone and calls Mycroft.

“This had better be important Sherlock, I’m in a meeting with the Prim-” 

“It’s a bad day,” Sherlock grinds out, gritting his teeth knowing that Mycroft is instantly snapping the connections together; _calling me, not John, hasn’t done that since they met, therefore John is the reason it’s really bad…_

“I’m sending the car.”

The car arrives within minutes and sweeps him away to Mycroft’s mansion, complete with the floor devoted to fitness which Mycroft never sets foot in except when Sherlock is having a bad day. Mycroft is already there with Rob, an ex-professional boxer, now a coach who, Sherlock assumes, Mycroft keeps on a retainer specifically for him having days like this, since Mycroft always gets Rob there within ten minutes. He and Rob head for the boxing ring and spar for hours, battering away at each other as Mycroft lounges on the bench, reading reports and interjecting occasional snide comments for Sherlock to snap back at, until Sherlock’s arms burn and his legs feel like rubber and the tension has been vented enough that the roar of craving has subsided to a background hum.

When he’s near collapse Mycroft sends for the car, hands him a huge flask of coffee, bids him an acidic goodbye and doesn’t try to make Sherlock talk about it. Sherlock loathes a lot of things about his brother, not least of all that Mycroft is the only person in the world who can read _him_ the way Sherlock can read everyone else, but he has never been more painfully grateful than today that Mycroft _is_ his brother. 

By the time he gets back to the flat it is in darkness. John is upstairs and he wants to go and check he’s ok, but he doesn’t, he _can’t_. He drinks his coffee, picks up his violin and plays and plays.

 

* * *

Nothing happens between him and John after that case. Or the next. Or the next. But there are no hurt expressions or reproachful stares; John's just exactly the same. He keeps expecting John to break down and push, for answers, for sex, for _something_ but John doesn’t. The only time they come close to discussing what happened is at the first crime scene they go to after the warehouse. Lestrade calls and Sherlock goes to the scene without texting John, who has popped out to the shops, but after about twenty minutes looking around the strange scene (an obvious forced entry, but with nothing taken, and a small wooden box with Chinese writing on it left at the scene) Sherlock turns around to see John standing behind him with his arms folded and a furious glare directed at him. 

“How did you – oh don’t tell me, Mycroft texted you,” Sherlock mutters feeling angry and oddly guilty.

“Yes, he did. Don’t make him have to do that again,” John says in a hard tone and pushes past him to examine the box.

After that they are back to normal – normal as in crime solving flatmates, with no sex. Just friends again, like they used to be before, as though John doesn't remember that anything else ever happened. That's good, Sherlock thinks, that they can return to being friends and there won’t be any tedious scenes or fights. Very sensible. After all there is no point in dwelling on irrelevant data.

Except he does. He dwells.

He remembers John on his knees in front of Sherlock, looking up at him with dark, hungry eyes, running his tongue over his lips. How John’s erection felt, satin and swollen, leaking against him, what it was like to be _inside_ him, and hear the sounds he made when he came.  Most of all, he remembers the way John kisses him and how it felt to fall into him, kissing, which was never important to him before John - and really it’s not good that John doesn’t seem to remember any of this. It’s horrible.

He tries to forget about it all, what happened was a physical response to adrenaline and a waste of time and energy which could have been spent on more important things, yet it doesn’t make it any easier. He wants to _touch_ him.

Sherlock has always been able to over-rule his body with his mind before, but this time his body is fighting back with every weapon it possesses. From the way he paces when John is late texting him from a stakeout, to his hands that he almost has to sit on to stop from reaching out to John, to his skin that feels like there should be _more_ and its _missing_ , to how he can sense where John is in a room, always, without even looking, to the permanent pain lodged in his chest, that anyone else would call heartache, and most of all the frantic feeling that despite that nothing is happening between them, it feels like _everything_ is happening, and the solution is no longer as easy as stopping having sex. He is slowly, precisely being split in two and is going to break into broken pieces if something doesn't snap soon, if something inside _him_ doesn't snap.

 

* * *

There have been no cases for a couple of weeks, but for once that has not been an annoyance to Sherlock, he has been engrossed learning new music for his violin, and enjoying experiments with decomposition and chemical analysis at Bart’s, which have been sufficiently interesting to hold his attention.

Today he concludes his chemical experiments and leaves Bart’s early, returning to Baker Street to write up his results, and practise his violin which gradually draws him in, the flat grows dark but he keeps playing standing by the window, watching the sky darken and the city lights come on and the moon emerge until he finally perfects the haunting tune, and replays it, losing himself in the music. He hears the flat door open and close. John has come in, but doesn’t interrupt, he stands in the doorway behind Sherlock, watching him, listening to him. Sherlock carries on until the end of the piece, before finally laying his violin down.

“Hello John,” he greets him casually turning round. “What did you think?”

John is gazing at Sherlock. “Beautiful,” John says quietly. Sherlock’s heart jumps, but then John is moving into the flat, flicking on the lights. “Good day?” John asks.

“Productive,” Sherlock allows. “You?”

 “Not bad, but I’m starving,”

“Um, don’t open the-”

It’s too late, John opens the fridge and stares inside it in horror for a second before slamming it closed. “Sherlock! I don’t believe this, you promised-!”

“Shall we go out to eat?” Sherlock asks hastily. “The Chinese?”

John shakes his head in exasperation, but agrees. “Sounds like a plan.”

They wander down to the Chinese on Baker Street, and their waiter seems to think it’s a date, like so many people who see him and John together, but of course it’s not a date, because Sherlock _doesn’t_ date, but if he did he would have to go somewhere more exclusive than the cosy, shabby restaurant on their street. If it was a date Sherlock assumes John would try to charm him, and he should dress up and feign interest. It wouldn’t be at their local Chinese in a booth with the leather on the seats worn cracked and thin, with John sniping at Sherlock about keeping body parts in the fridge and flagrantly pinching his share of complimentary prawn crackers. 

And yet…it doesn’t feel like just good friends either. Not the way he notices the light catching on John’s hair. Not the way he feels when his leg occasionally brushes against John’s under the table.

Not the way that John said ‘beautiful’ before.

They order, and eat, and Sherlock tells John about his experiment in the fridge (measuring rates of body decomposition in various types of mud at different temperatures, until John begs him to shut up about it while they’re eating) and gives him a synopsis of the lives of each of their fellow diners, and points out that their waiter likes to dress as a woman in his time off; (“Look at his nails, John! Traces of false nails being repeatedly stuck on then removed!”)

And John tells Sherlock about work at the surgery, (hellishly busy) the book he’s reading (“Stephen King, although horror writers have lost their edge for me a bit, after living with you”) and the latest drunken phone call he had from Harry; (“She’s not doing well. Not doing well at all”)

And Sherlock doesn’t think there is anything he can say to that which would help, but he offers John his last piece of prawn toast and John takes it, and somehow that seems to work as well as anything else, and as always John lets Sherlock have his fortune cookie; (“For Gods sake just take it, I know you’ll sulk all night if you don’t.”)

Then when the meal is over they leave the restaurant and walk straight out into a downpour, so they run for it, arriving in the flat breathless, laughing and soaked, and Sherlock is looking at John’s drenched hair and jacket, trying to work out the depth that the rain had permeated the material in the six minutes they had been running through the rain... And then the calculations fall away. And he’s just looking at him.

“You’re soaked,” Sherlock says quietly, touching John’s arm and his fingers don’t want to leave. They linger on the material of the wet coat.

“You too,” John says, reaching out and touching Sherlock’s sleeve, but John isn’t looking at Sherlock’s coat, he’s looking at Sherlock and Sherlock doesn’t know how it’s happening, but their fingers are slipping slowly downwards along their sleeves until their hands are brushing, fingers threading through each other. Sherlock tries to remind himself that he stopped doing this for a reason. He can’t do this, he can’t do _normal_ , he’s a consulting detective, the worlds only one, and part of what makes him so good is he doesn’t have any emotional distractions, but it seems John is always in his head now, whether they’re sleeping together or not and he's missed this _painfully_ , and John is right here, touching his hand, and he _doesn’t want to stop_ …

Sherlock pulls John to him and they’re kissing, kissing like they’ll never stop, kissing like they’ve been missing this forever. John is pushing at his coat, it hits the floor in a thump of wet, heavy fabric and Sherlock is lifting John’s arms so they are tight around his neck and John is up on his toes, and he’s half pushing, half carrying John backwards towards his bedroom, and right now he doesn’t give a damn about ‘normal’ or ‘emotional distractions’, all he cares about is the explosion of happiness bursting through his body, because this is happening, this thing with John is suddenly possible and easy and it’s _happening_ , all over again.

They stumble across his dark bedroom, dimly lit from the street lights coming in through his open curtains and make it to the bed, and it's almost like nothings changed, but Sherlock knows something has, everything has. This isn’t about adrenaline, this is about John giving him his fortune cookie, and telling him about Harry. The way he does the shopping and buys the shortbread Sherlock likes even though John doesn’t. The way he introduced Sherlock to Jerry Springer, and ran with him through the rain, and a million other reasons that makes lying here on the bed with him impossible to walk away from. Hands reaching for skin. Mouths slipping against each other. Rain pattering against the window. His trousers off, but his shirt still half on. Gasping as John takes him in his hand. John’s shirt is off but his jeans open and lingering around his hips. Without taking his mouth away from John’s he finds the oil under the bed that was actually earmarked for use in an experiment, but Sherlock can improvise and he’s pouring it, moving his hand on John making him slick and mindless with pleasure, and Sherlock breaks the kiss, because he can’t do normal, he knows he can’t but he can do _something_ …. He looks at John for a moment, panting heavily, then he straddles him, hearing John’s sharp inhale and his whispered;

“ _Sherlock._ ”

And Sherlock is sinking down, biting his lip against the burning pressure, but then John is fully inside and it feels okay, and then he’s moving on John, holding John inside him, steady and deep and it’s totally, utterly, _glorious,_ and his unhappiness of the last few weeks is melting away under the warmth of it, and it’s slow and tingling and almost unbearably tender. It takes a long time to get urgent, but when it does it happens all at once, John is thrusting up, driving Sherlock’s hips with his hands, and Sherlock is bracing his hands on John’s shoulders, riding John as hard as he can, and  then John’s hand is moving tight and fast on his erection and it’s mindless and primal and utterly, completely fantastic and all he can think is _John. John. John_ a shout wrung from him with every plunge and he can’t stop looking at John, seeing him flushed and hungry-eyed, and he can’t hold back any more he’s coming, whimpering and painting John’s chest, and John is wide-eyed and eating him up with his eyes, and gasping broken sounds that form words like;

“Sherlock,” and “oh my god” and “you’re so…” and “I’m going to-”

Then John is clamping his lips tight closed, dropping his eyes away from Sherlock, and no, no, he needs John _with_ him;

“Look at me,” and he wants it to come out like a command, but his voice is shaking and it sounds like a plea. “John, keep looking at me…”

And John’s eyes snap back to him, and he’s here, he’s right _here_ with Sherlock and John is making helpless, urgent cries, and panting, “God, you’re perfect – you are _perfect,_ ” then his hands tighten painfully hard on Sherlock’s hips and he keeps his eyes fixed on Sherlock as he comes. 

When its over Sherlock lies down next to John, wraps his arm around him, and they look at each other without speaking. At some point they must drift off, because when Sherlock wakes up John is still asleep next to him and when Sherlock sees him, the first thing he does is smile. 

 

* * *

Now, it happens more than ever, case or no and Sherlock is discovering a lot about John that he never knew. That John sleeps deeply, but thrashes around when he has nightmares. That the faint scar on his leg is from when Harry pushed him off a roundabout when they were children. That he loves Sherlock’s fingers scratching down his back but is hopelessly ticklish down his sides. That John’s room is just as unforthcoming as John, with his sparse belongings arranged with military precision, but Sherlock’s room full of frantic chaos –although still messy – becomes clean and bright and welcoming the more time John spends in it, and, tutting loudly, enforces some order to it. 

Sherlock’s learnt a few things about himself too. That apparently his unconscious body is more than a little possessive, because he wakes up sprawled over John, legs and arms wrapped around him like a finger trap. That he can stop John’s nightmares by murmuring ‘shhh’ and rubbing his back. That he likes it when John falls asleep in his bed, because when Sherlock wakes up to work in the night, John is still there when he crawls back into bed. That when John unconsciously shifts to curve around Sherlock’s body to welcome him back, the word that Sherlock keeps thinking, is ‘ _home’_.

And yet despite all this John is still like Teflon, none of the intimacies they share seem to stick to him. Waking John up in the middle of the night by sliding down his body to take him in his mouth is easy, but sending him away with a kiss when they part at the start of the day is impossible. There are still plenty of nights where Sherlock gets home and John has already gone to bed in his own barren room, and while Sherlock can ask John to risk his life, to examine a body, to shoot someone for him, there is something about going up the stairs, knocking on John’s door and asking if John will sleep beside him that makes Sherlock feel utterly, inexplicably shy.

There _must_ be more locked away under John’s composure and yet he can’t reach it, can’t find a way to make John open up for Sherlock to examine what’s inside. John is a mystery and shows no sign of ever breaking open, and while Sherlock was once held enrapt by that, he is now frustrated, confused (and buried deep inside him, _hurt)_ by that and can’t stop searching for that one loose thread that will unravel John completely.  

 

* * *

It turns out that the loose thread to John is Sherlock himself. They have just wrapped up the case of a killer who has been using a poison that was so undetectable that according to John the victims might as well have been killed by the ‘Avada Kadavra’ spell. (John told Sherlock that they are going to have a Harry Potter movie night when Sherlock responded to that comment with a blank look). The killer has been identified (by Sherlock), found (by Sherlock) and arrested (by Lestrade), and has requested to speak to Sherlock.

Ironically, he’s called Simon Good. A small, almost skeletally thin man, pale skinned and dark haired. He had held menial jobs, which Sherlock has to admit, had thrown him initially. When he had tracked down the area the killer could be found in, with a laboratory located nearby, the solution had seemed to be a scientist working in the lab, not the evening cleaner, who also worked an afternoon shift at the coffee shop opposite. Even more annoyingly it was the coffee shop Sherlock had sat in, staring out the window, while he was staking out the laboratory. 

“Sherlock Holmes,” Simon murmurs as Sherlock walks into the room.

“So,” Sherlock says, sitting down opposite him. “You wanted to speak to me?”

Simon doesn’t say anything for a moment, then he looks up. His eyes behind his glasses are as flat and as cold as a sharks. Sherlock hasn’t seen eyes like that since Moriarty and a cold shudder slips down his spine.

“Wanted to meet you,” Simon says eventually. “Officially I mean, since you caught me. Did you like the little compound I designed?”

“It was a horrifically brilliant,” Sherlock replies. His skin is crawling, but he has to admit that the poison was beautifully, malevolently crafted and it impresses him as much as it repels him.

“It was wasn’t it?” Simon gloats, lips splitting into a bloodless grin. “Shame you cut me off before I could go for the big score, that water supply would have reached _thousands_.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to reply, but Simon beats him too it.

“You could have caught me a _little_ bit sooner though, maybe even saved that last test subject, all that time you spent in the coffee shop – I even waited on you a couple of times.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond to the barb about the ‘test subject’ but she flashes before him nonetheless. _Fiona, 19, student, liked swimming, iceskating, had a cat, died before her friend could even call 999._ But the worse thing he can do with this…reptile is to let him see he’s got to Sherlock.“Thank you for not poisoning me, I’m told my tipping leaves something to be desired.”

“It does. As does your attention to your servers – you did get so focussed on watching the lab didn’t you?”

“So, this is about thanking my waiters?”

“No, this is about me taking a good look at you before I kill you.”

And apparently they have reached the feeble threats part of the meeting. “Oh, let me guess, you still have a trick up your sleeve?”

Something seems to have greatly amused Simon. “Something like that.”

Sherlock stands, bluster and a pathetic need for attention is boring. “Well this has been interesting, but if that’s all, I really must be dashing.”

He leaves the room, aware of Simon’s eyes focussed on him until he is out of his sight, and joins John in the waiting room. He is sitting on the edge of a seat, rubbing his thumb nail with the ball of his other thumb which he only does when he’s worried, and jumps to his feet as soon as he sees Sherlock.

“Everything ok?”

“Of course,” Sherlock says dismissively. “The usual threats they all indulge in. I need a cigarette.”

“No, Sherlock!” John snaps.

“Fine,” Sherlock grumbles, groping for his nicotine patches, unbuttoning his cuff to roll up his sleeve, slapping one on his arm.

“Stressful in there?” John asks, watching him.

“It wasn’t pleasant,” Sherlock admits. “That is a very cold-blooded-” He stops. His arm has gone numb. He looks down blankly at the patch, and just has time to think; ‘ _Of course…’_ when his legs collapse from under him. He hits the floor and yet he feels weirdly like he’s flying. He can hear John shouting; ‘Sherlock! Sher-!”

And everything goes dark.

 

* * *

It feels like he’s been floating forever, mindless and formless, somewhere silent and dark, but after an immeasurable period of time he becomes aware of a steady ‘beep-beep-beep’ sound, and although he can’t move he can feel the weight of his body, so at least he’s _aware_ of his body again, of someone being close to him, and he knows that warmth, that pressure.  _John_.

Snatches come to him, as he lies still in the hospital bed, drifting in and out of the darkness. Sometimes he catches Mrs Hudson’s voice clucking away, Mycroft’s acidic tones, which nonetheless carry an undercurrent of concern, Lestrade’s weary worry, Molly’s determinedly cheerful chirping, sometimes it’s quiet, but the constant he can always sense or hear is John, and Sherlock wants to turn towards him, open his eyes and reach out his hand, but his body lies motionless, weighted with lead, far beyond the orders of his floating mind.

 “-when do they think he’ll wake up?” Mycroft’s voice swirls out of the darkness.

“We don’t know yet,” John replies, he sounds exhausted. Sherlock can sense John sitting on the bed next to him.

“It’s been days already, are they sure he’s in no danger?” Mycroft presses.

“As sure as they can be, they’re hopeful he’ll come round in another day or so since his exposure to the poison in the patch was minimal.”

“Thanks to you,” Mycroft says, and it’s so unusual Sherlock can hardly believe it but there is a note of respect in his voice.

“And you,” John says. “You’re the one whose flown in every specialist you can find.”

“A minor matter,” Mycroft says dismissively. “And by the way just because at your request I made arrangements so you can stay here 24 hours a day, it doesn’t mean you should. You look terrible, take a break, go home tonight, sleep in your own bed.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” John says flatly. 

There’s moments pause, then; “Does my brother know you’re in love with him?” Mycroft’s voice contains nothing other than a detached curiosity. “I’m inclined to think he must, and yet he does miss the most obvious things.”

A thunder of emotion roars through Sherlock, he needs to gasp, move, run, _something_ , but he can’t so much as twitch his eyelids.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” John says coolly.

“Oh, that’s very good.” Mycroft sounds genuinely admiring. “Is that how you’ve held his attention since your relationship became physical? By being the Captain again?”

And like the first domino falling over, each and every one tumbles over and Mycroft is right – of _course_ he’s right, almost from the start that’s what John’s been doing and Sherlock feels sick, because he should have _seen_ it, he should have realised _months_ ago…

“Mycroft this is none of your-”

"It’s excellent.” Mycroft muses. “If there’s one thing guaranteed to keep Sherlock fascinated it’s something he can’t fathom, so you treat it like a mission. Make a plan. Establish cover. Use your military training to conceal your feelings and hold his interest, although of course it’s short term, you realise that? He will know sooner or later, and then…” Mycroft trails off.

There is a pause, then John says quietly. “Later, then. I’ll take later.”

“How very…emotional of you,” and Mycroft’s voice is dry and yet there is the tiniest drop of compassion in it. “You don’t think your own merits are sufficiently appealing to hold his interest?”

John gives a bitter laugh. “For Sherlock Holmes? To have something approaching a normal relationship? Come on Mycroft, there’s no room for illusions here.” And that's the voice of the Captain now – clipped and unemotional, obviously how John survived and even flourished in the army, except now it’s Sherlock that John has mapped and strategized and the worst thing of all is once John was totally right, and Sherlock has been trying to pull on his thread to undo him and of course John hasn’t allowed him to find it, because Sherlock hasn’t made it clear, hasn’t explained that things are _different_ now, _he’s_ different now…

And he needs to _fix_ this, fix it _right now_ , but already he can feel himself slipping away, Mycroft is speaking but their voices are receding as Sherlock is swept away again, back into the swirling, velvet darkness.

 

* * *

The next thing he knows there is a sudden burst of sound and feeling, of white noise and a rushing sensation and Sherlock opens his eyes, gasps and sits up.

"Ah, Sherlock,” Mycroft who is lounging in the chair beside his bed greets him with a faint smile. "At last, you’ve been dragging this out, your doctors were confident you would have woken up by this morning,” he waves a hand airily. “Hence our vigil."

Sherlock turns and sees that the room is full of people. Molly and Lestrade are standing by the bed, Mycroft and Mrs Hudson are in the visitors chairs and John is standing by the window, rumpled and haggard looking with dark circles under his eyes, and utterly, completely wonderful. Judging by the stubble on John’s face and the creases in his clothes Sherlock has been in here six to seven days, and apparently, so has John.

“Hello,” Sherlock greets him.

“ _Now_ will you give up the nicotine patches?” John says in exasperation, grinning at Sherlock and Sherlock feels a grin burst over his face.

And to every one else in the room, even as recently as a few days ago, to Sherlock, it looks like he’s just a concerned friend, like he’s nothing special, like nothing special is happening between them. But he knows better now, the data has always been there, it’s just different to what he’d thought it would be. John’s stance is a fraction more upright, his speech tones slightly more clipped. That’s the Captain, covering his vulnerable man. Even if John is both.  

"You gave us quite a scare Sherlock dear,” Mrs Hudson clucks. “How are you feeling?”

“Actually, almost normal, or as close as I ever get.” Sherlock says. “John, come here.”

John looks surprised. “If you want a doctor I should call Dr Simmons, he’s been looking after you -”

 “No, I want you to come here,” Sherlock insists.

Looking puzzled, John approaches the bed and Sherlock reaches up, grabs a handful of John’s shirt, pulls him down and kisses him.

He can hear Mrs Hudson’s; “Oh, my!” A loud tut from Mycroft (who disapproves of public displays of affection), Lestrades astonished gasp, Molly’s squeak of surprise, but the only thing that matters is John, who makes a “Mmmpfh!” sound of surprise against his mouth before pulling back, staring at Sherlock in utter bewilderment.

“Sherlock-what-?”

“John and I are together,” Sherlock announces, without taking his eyes from John, and John, fantastic, incredible, wonderful John (who really thought Sherlock would break it off when he found out he was a lottery winner who had made John Watson fall in love with him, is he an _idiot? )_ is staring at Sherlock speechless with astonishment. “And we’re in love.”

“What, _really_?” Lestrade is obviously still catching up.

“Well, well, well,” Mycroft drawls amused.

“Awww,” Molly coos. “That is so romantic!”

"Well lovely dear," Mrs Hudson says placidly, obviously not fazed at all, which leads Sherlock to think that apparently he and John haven’t been as quiet as they could have been. "That's-"

"—brilliant. Yes, I know," Sherlock finishes. “And John won’t need the room upstairs anymore.”

“I won’t?” John repeats, still looking dazed and sounding a little huffy.

“Will you?” Sherlock asks, suddenly feeling uncertain – maybe he has done this all wrong, is this usually how people ask someone to be their live-in boyfriend? Probably not, and he is difficult he knows that and doubtless will be rubbish at it and a great trial to John, maybe John doesn’t want him full time…

Maybe John reads some of this on his face, because his bewilderment fades slightly to make way for an expression Sherlock hasn’t seen on his face before, something tender and precious and dear, and John looks at him for a moment before shaking his head. “No. I won’t need that room.”

Sherlock feels a beam burst over his face and John is wearing a matching one, and they are both grinning at each other like idiots and if this is normal, then Sherlock can really, really live with this, and he takes John’s hand in his, because he’s allowed, because it’s easy, because he should have done this long ago, and shifts to make room for John to sit at his side, right where he belongs.

The End


End file.
